


The Love That's Deserved

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 16:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16178942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: For Michelle, who likes it when Barba cries ;)





	The Love That's Deserved

Barba didn’t look up from his glass when Benson sat on the stool beside him. “If this is an intervention, it’s a bad time,” he said with a humorless twist of his lips. His shoulders were hunched up beneath his ears.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked.

“She’ll be in surgery for five hours,” Barba said, sipping at his scotch.

“And you’re, what, going to sit here getting—”

“Save the sanctimonious speech,” he said, and she fell silent beside him. He frowned into his glass, and she saw his throat bob. “I’m batting a thousand at disappointing the people I—” He stopped himself abruptly, and after a moment he downed the last of his scotch and motioned to the bartender for another.

“If you mean me, I’m not disappointed,” she said, and he cast her a sidelong look.

“Bullshit,” he said with a quiet laugh.

“Just worried,” she answered, ignoring his attempt to start an argument. She paused. “You think your mother’s disappointed in you?” she asked.

“Of course she is,” he said with another bitter laugh. “How could she not be? I gave up the chance at a family for a career she didn’t even want me to have. Now I don’t even have...” He shook his head and took a drink.

“What do you mean you gave up—”

“She would’ve forgiven me for everything else if I’d given her a grandkid.”

“Everything else? Barba, it’s not too late—”

“I disappointed my father.”

“Was he really someone you’d want to have proud of you?”

“My grandmother.”

“She _was_ proud of you.

He held his glass in a death-grip; she could see the whiteness in his knuckles. He cleared his throat and said, keeping his voice carefully controlled, “You didn’t see the look on her face when I said she should move into that place."

“You did what you thought was best. You always do.”

“I disappointed McCoy. The squad. You.”

“No.”

He glanced at her. He swallowed half of his scotch with a wince. “I walked away and left you crying on the fucking sidewalk,” he said.

“I don’t think now’s the time to discuss that,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not. But I’m trying,” he muttered. “You should leave.”

“No.”

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“To check on you.”

“But why? Just cut your losses, Lieutenant.” He paused, gently swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I’m a lost cause even St. Jude couldn’t help,” he murmured, watching the light dance in his scotch.

“Are you looking for pity, Barba? Because I think you’re giving yourself plenty all on your own.”

He laughed. “Oh, you know me, Liv, just—”

“Well, I thought I did,” she interrupted, “but I’ve never known you to sit around wallowing.”

“You’ve never known me to do a lot of things,” he said, raising the glass to his lips.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Fuck if I know,” he answered before drinking. He rubbed his lips together, staring at the rows of bottles behind the bar.

“You know what, fine,” she said, pushing to her feet. “You wallow. Call me if you need a ride to the hospital.”

He didn’t answer, and she shook her head as she started past him. She’d only taken a few steps before she turned and went back to the stool. “That was fast,” he remarked without looking at her.

“Screw you,” she said, and he smiled, nodding as he raised his scotch. She barely resisted the urge to snatch the glass from his fingers. “You don’t get to push me away and then act like I was the one who walked out. It wasn’t me, not this time. Believe me, I know the feeling by now.”

“Thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“If you have something to say to me, say it.”

“I don’t. Not now.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t stop drinking that, I’m going to dump it down your shirt,” she said, and he laughed—for the first time since she’d arrived, there was a trace of real humor in the sound. After a moment’s hesitation, he set the glass on the bar and fingered the rim, pressing his lips together. “Talk to me, Rafael,” she said, and even in profile, she could see the pain ripple through his features. He composed himself, though.

He was in pain, but he was tough, and he was stubborn, and he’d trained himself to be self-reliant. She and he were cut from the same cloth, and they both knew it. For a long time, it had been enough, just to have someone who understood her so completely, who could read her thoughts and feelings without needing to talk things into the ground.

She’d finally begun to believe that she deserved more. She knew that Barba hadn’t yet reached that point. For all his swagger and pomp, there was still a part of his mind that belonged to the poor, scared little boy from the South Bronx whose seeds of self-doubt had been sown by his own father. That was a part of him that she recognized well, and she knew how terrifying it was to look that inner child in the face.

“If something happens on that operating table, do you want to live the rest of your life knowing you were sitting here, drinking and feeling sorry for yourself?” she asked.

He sniffed, and she saw the muscle in his cheek tic as he clenched his jaw. He wasn’t going to break that easily, and she hadn’t expected him to. “If something happens, it’s not going to matter where I am,” he said.

“You keep telling yourself that and maybe you’ll start to believe it.”

“Don’t you have a kid somewhere you should be spending time with?” he asked, and the words hurt exactly as he’d intended; she felt them cut through her, stealing her breath, and for several seconds she could do nothing but stare at his profile.

He knew he’d gone too far—she could see the knowledge, the _regret_ , in the lines of his face, but he also wanted her to strike back. He wanted her to cut into him with the words that would confirm all of his worst fears. He wanted her to serve him the misery he thought he deserved.

“She’s going to be fine, Rafael,” she said quietly. “She’s strong, you know that.”

He swallowed, closing his eyes, and pulled a breath through his nose. “She’s human,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And without her, I have—” He stopped himself again, but he didn’t raise the glass to his lips. He glared at it instead, holding it against the bar with both hands.

“What? Nothing? No one? You act like you’re eighty years old, like there’s not still time. Like your mother’s the only person who loves you. You’re right, she’s human, and some day she’ll be gone.” She could see the shine in his eyes and the set of his jaw and she knew that she had to keep pushing, no matter how much it hurt them both. “Maybe then you can breathe easily, knowing you don’t have to try so hard to impress someone who would only ever be disappointed in you.” His breath caught, but she continued: “You worked your way into Harvard, you fought your way to the highest conviction rate in the city, but it wasn’t enough, was it? It’ll never be enough. When she’s gone, it’ll be a relief, won’t it?”

He shook his head, and she could see his chin quivering as he tried to hold himself together.

“Or maybe she’s not the one who never thought you were good enough,” she said, gentling her tone. “Maybe you know she’s always been proud of you but you’ve never felt like you deserved it, never felt worthy of her expectations.”

She saw his control slipping.

She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward her. He didn’t resist, but the moment their eyes met, his face crumpled. She grabbed his head and pulled him forward, and his forehead dropped to her shoulder as he caught a sob in his throat. She held the back of his head, and he held her arm, his fingers digging into her muscle as he desperately tried to anchor himself.

“You’re not alone, Rafa,” she murmured near his ear, and his other hand fisted in her shirt at her waist. She could feel his body trembling.

“Liv, I’m not ready,” he whispered with his forehead against her shoulder. “I’m not ready to lose her, not now, not when I’ve lost…” He faded out, but she knew the rest: _not when I’ve lost everything else_.

“She’ll be okay,” Benson said, and she could tell that he’d finally begun to cry—she could feel it in the tremors of his body, hear it in the wet sounds of his breathing, but he kept his grief muted. There were no loud sobs, just a quiet outpouring of his broken heart. She knew that it wasn’t because of the people in the bar—he couldn’t care less about them. Children in abusive homes learned early how to quiet their cries, and those were lessons that were never forgotten.

“Liv,” he said, clinging to her as he cried, and she held him. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not alone,” she repeated, and she felt his hands tighten.

“I walked away,” he breathed. If his face weren’t so close to her ear, she never would have heard the words. And then, his voice raw with pain, he asked: “Why?”

She sighed. “The same reason I didn’t ask you to stay,” she answered quietly. “What’s that quote—‘We accept the love we think we deserve,’ right?”

“Chobsky, _Perks of_ —”

“Shut up,” she said, and he made a wet sound that might’ve been laughter. “I’ve finally figured out that I deserve more,” she said. “You need to realize it for yourself. But I can’t wait forever, Rafael.”

She felt his body go still as he stopped breathing. After a few seconds, he said, “What?”

When she didn’t answer, he pulled away from her, drawing back to look at her face. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed, his nose pink, his cheeks splotchy. He didn’t care how he looked as he searched her eyes.

“I can’t do it for you,” she said quietly. “I wish I could.” Seeing his pain was nearly unbearable, but she couldn’t beg him—or anyone—to give her what she finally believed she deserved. It had to be his decision.

He sniffed, staring at her, and she could see him trying to make sense of her words, could see him gathering his thoughts and courage. “Are you—” He stopped and swallowed. She wanted to encourage him but kept her silence, waiting. “Are you saying there’s…Are you telling me there’s a chance—” He stopped himself and swallowed again, shaking his head. She saw his expression harden, and it was a look she knew well—she’d seen that steely set of determination time and time again when he was bracing himself to do something difficult. He lifted his chin a notch, drew a breath, and said, “I love you, Liv.”

She released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

“If you’ll give me another chance—”

She raised her hands to his cheeks, holding his watery gaze. “Shut up,” she whispered with a smile.

She saw the hope in his expression, and the fear, and as he studied her face, she saw realization and relief. “I love you,” he repeated. She let her hands slip down to his shoulders. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and after a moment’s hesitation, he bent his head forward. He paused, giving her time to pull away, before pressing his lips, tentatively, against hers.


End file.
